


Lazarus

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Aliens (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Androids, Canon-Typical Violence, Colonial Marine Shenanigans, Gen, Military, Three Laws of Robotics, sorry Artificial People, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: A squad of Colonial Marines crash-land on an inhabited planet and are captured by hostile forces, with one of them taken for dead - what happens next will surprise you!





	1. Chapter 1

“Four marines and one civilian out of the ship, minor injuries, transferred to holding cell. Their lieutenant, taken for questioning. And one dead body, sent to the morgue. We won’t autopsy.”

“Who’s the guy who got iced?”

“Dunno. Maybe another civilian. But no pulse, no breathing…. Gone.”

Hicks leans ever so slightly forward; blood from his nose drips onto his crossed legs. He glances up and down the line and counts, and shifts his eyes to Ripley with a look that she hopes she understands.


	2. Chapter 2

The morgue is almost an after-thought; a room in the medical wing behind the operating theatre with fridges and a slab loaded into it as if  _ oh yes, people might die. _ Unfortunate cadavers would be on trolleys, but there aren’t any fresh dead to contend with right now, besides a single body bag carelessly left to one side, on the floor. The cooling systems hum and the ventilation rattles and that covers the sound of a moving zip.

These things aren’t designed to be opened from the inside, for obvious reasons. The corpse, still in uniform and mostly unscathed, manages to extricate himself and stands up. He swipes a smudge of white fluid from his face. Where did they think that had come from? Why didn’t they realise he bled the wrong colour for a human?

Either way, they’d declared him dead, which was little hurtful. Cybernetic beings were only just gaining personhood status, let alone being considered ‘alive’ in the traditional sense.  _ Starfish _ were thought of as living beings, for goodness’ sake:  _ earthworms  _ got a modicum of sympathy for being crushed under a gardener’s shovel. But do the same to a synthetic, and people would hesitate to use the word ‘murdered’ or even ‘killed’... because they weren’t  _ really alive _ , were they? They were running, conscious, intelligent, sentient - but not, you know,  _ alive _ .

He recognises that this might be a sore point for him - especially standing in the chill of the morgue, with the open body bag at his feet and none of the other residents even remotely equipped to follow his example. This could be how Lazarus felt. The subject of wonder and suspicion in equal measure for a ‘miracle’ that he had no control over. Dead, only to rise again. (Except the Biblical Lazarus existed long before the field of cybernetics was even invented, so he was, you know,  _ really dead _ .)

There are no sentinels at the door of the morgue and only one doctor in the medical bay, poking sticky notes into a catalogue with all the enthusiasm of someone with nothing else to do, facing away from the door. Bishop is able to pocket several useful items, including surgical blades, before he even attempts to sneak up on the man’s indifferent white-clad back.

The doctor reacts to being grabbed but a hand over his mouth stifles any noise he might make.

“I won’t hurt you,” Bishop says, and that’s a promise. “But I’d like you to do what I say, and do it quietly.”

It’s unclear how much the doctor knows - either about what’s happening in the base, or the fact that one hand on his face and the other gripped around his wrists is already setting off warnings in his assailant’s head. But he complies anyway, and is able to give directions to the main block at least, and makes little fuss about being securely fastened to a chair.

“How long before someone finds you? Minutes? Hours?”

The man nods at the latter.

“One hour?” Seems to be the case. “No more than an hour?” Verified.

This is partly to let Bishop know how much time he has to disappear from the scene and seek his objective, and partly to reassure his programming. He would be compelled to stay if the man was injured or severely distressed or with a chronic condition or likely to encounter danger or be trapped for too long without assistance… all the possibilities are wearying. He leaves, because  _ the human will be fine _ . This is probably the most interesting thing that’s happened in the medical bay for days.

\--

A silent corridor leads away from the surgery, and by the junction at the far end he finds a computer terminal. To access any sort of useful information, he needs the name of a staff member - several already gleaned from notices and labels in the area - and a password.

Despite this being a military installation, at least one of them is stupid or forgetful enough to have set their password as ‘password’. This is a fact of human existence that he’s never been able to disprove.

It takes a few seconds to memorise the map, and a few more to read some urgent communications concerning the captured marines. He fights the urge to rectify the part where they declare one of them deceased - that’s him. But the rest are alive, and stable. Gorman is separated. They’re being held inside the main block. This territory can be considered hostile. It’s better to go for the comms first, before lighting everything up on the way out. (The marines will cause mayhem, he knows that, and it’s acceptable.)

There are so few people here, and that makes him wary. A couple of guards at important locations, a scattering of workers in the corridors, easily avoided by hiding in dark corners - as if the rest of them had suddenly disappeared. No soldiers, no medics. A large force must have been deployed from the base, and recently, but the only event he knows about is the ditching of their ship. Barely two squads attended that. Something big must be going on elsewhere, providing a convenient distraction.

Also a convenient distraction: a ventilation shaft around the corner from the comms room, with the grille in the ceiling. He loosens it and balances it so it starts to slip, and ducks into an alcove. The crash is loud enough that both the armed personnel at the door come to see what’s going on, and he gets past them in that brief moment.

A man is in at the bank of machinery, facing away, but he doesn’t have the total indifference of the doctor and there are precious few seconds before he registers a new presence. Bishop grabs him tightly and pulls his head back, resting the scalpel blade against his throat.

“Make one sound and I’ll cut out your larynx. Understand?”

The comms supervisor struggles, but he’s smaller and not built for strenuous effort, and Bishop has him pinned.

“Understand?”

He affirms silently and the scalpel digs into his skin. It starts to bleed.

“If I let you go now, will you attack me?”

An affirmative again. He might be outmatched, but he knows his duty. Bishop wrenches him to one side - the muffled sounds hopefully inaudible from outside, if the guards have returned - then turns the scalpel around to the blunt end.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and jabs it into the back of the man’s neck.

Lowering the body to the floor, he glances up to check whether they’ve been discovered. Nothing yet. 

He has a minute or so before his victim recovers. The trickle from the neck wound has slowed. Turning him over, Bishop digs the scalpel between the cervical vertebrae and tugs it from side to side, severing most of the connections there. The scalpel blade snaps off inside. Switching it for another, and going back to the front side, he slices the wiring to the vocal cords. Upon waking, the other synthetic will find it all but impossible to move or speak - it pains him to do it, but the damage can be repaired and is by no means fatal.

He could have just gone for the kill. He doesn’t want to, not on a blameless, harmless, unarmed unit who wouldn’t lay a finger on him if he was human.

Pushing the inert body under a table, he busies himself with getting a transmission to the ship still in orbit. Burke answers, and the brief run-down of the situation Bishop gives him makes him splutter in indignation. Shot down? What happened to make that possible?  _ Captive _ ? The Sergeant would surely have something to say about -.

The Sergeant does have something to say about it, and it’s not complimentary. Bishop listens to Apone’s tirade of invective with one ear and the wounded gurgles of the synthetic under the table with the other.

“We’ll try and get the other dropship to you,” Burke reassures, “once you’re at a suitable RV point….”

“Get them out of there alive,” Apone orders. “And ask your hostiles what the fuck they think they’re playing at! This is not fucking summer camp! You don’t get points for shooting every fucking thing that moves!”

“Understood, sir. You might have to hold the ship back, if it kicks off while we’re in here. Be cautious on the approach.The base is fairly empty right now. I don’t know why. Their forces are engaged elsewhere, apparently. Keep an eye out for what might be doing that.”

“Alright,” Burke says confidently.

“If I was well enough to fly I’d fly the fucking thing right into their mess…” Apone continues, then pauses. “Just get out of there, Bishop; get Ripley out of there - and tell ‘em not to fuck up. Especially the Lieutenant. He looks like he’d be pretty damn good at running away….”

“Confirmed, Sergeant.”

“Apone out.”

Those remaining on the ship (read: Burke) are left to deal with Apone’s thunderous mood. More out of curiosity than anything, Bishop pokes at his stricken companion with his foot.

Bubbles of hydraulic fluid and a sound like a dying starter motor are the only reply he gets.

“Stay still. Try to keep your blood inside you.”

Getting out of the room will be trickier than getting in. The guards have returned to their positions, and there is little chance of escaping undetected.


	3. Chapter 3

The door bangs open and Hicks looks up, hoping for the first time in his life to see Gorman alive because at least that would mean that they’d finished with him. They might even reverse their decision to keep the group bound and locked in this cold, damp coffin of a room. Might.

It isn’t Gorman.

Even Vasquez winces as they throw the most resilient team member directly onto his face on the concrete floor. He drags himself to a sitting position with a sigh and the same mildly troubled expression that he always wears.

“Bishop, man, where were you?” Hudson hisses, tugging at his own restraints.

“In the morgue. They mistook me for a dead human after the crash.”

“Fuck. You escaped from the  _ morgue _ ?”

“It wasn’t difficult.”

“What did you  _ do _ ?”

“Tied up a doctor and disabled an artificial colleague. I made it to the comms tower and talked to Burke and the Sergeant; they’re sending the other dropship down as soon as they can. I told them to be careful. We’re to escape and RV as far away from this place as we can.”

“Escape?” Hudson says. “ _ Escape _ ? Oh yeah, sure, just let me put on my escaping pants and do my Houdini act and abracadabra!”

“Shut up,” Vasquez snaps. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“They haven’t guessed,” Ripley says suddenly.

“What?” that gets Hicks’s attention.

“Houdini always had some kind of trick behind him,” Drake tells them. “It was all staged.” 

Hicks glares at him and he goes quiet.

Ripley nods at Bishop. “They haven’t guessed, have they? They still think he’s human.”

“The guy rose from the dead,” Hicks counters, “how could they not -?”

“They put him in here with the rest of us!” she exclaims. “In handcuffs. You wouldn’t do that with a synthetic, would you, Corporal?”

“Well, no….”

“They’ve just given us back our escape artist. Haven’t they?”

Bishop doesn’t say anything, but takes his hands out from behind his back with the cuffs broken in two.

\--

The marines ease themselves to their feet, complaining and stretching. Hudson and Drake take position on either side of the door.

“We know there are a pair of guards outside,” Hicks tells them, “there might be more across the hallway. Once we get out, we’re going. Right out of the door and a left at the cross-junction towards the stairs. Up to the next level and left along the hallway should take us near an exit - stay together. Keep up.”

“This - should we kick it down?”

“I don’t think we can. Looks strong.”

Hudson thumps on the door experimentally with his shoulder.

“Shh,” Drake cautions him. “They’ll hear us.”

“Maybe that’s what we want,” Ripley says. “If we can’t open it, we get them to do it for us.”

To her credit, only Hudson looks at her as if she’s sprouted an extra head. Hicks authorises them to bang on the door, and eventually, it’s unlocked from the outside and one of the guards stands in the doorway.

“What!? What do you pieces of -.”

The exact moment can be pinpointed when his brain catches up to his mouth and he realises they were able to strike the door because their hands are free and they’re all standing and alert and ready to -.

Drake reacts first and jerks the man to the floor with a knee in his back. Vasquez grabs the second guard from outside. The commotion is short-lived. The marines make light work of rendering the two unconscious and grabbing their weapons and armour.

“Let’s hope nobody saw that,” Hicks mutters, taking a side-arm for himself.

“We can shoot our way out,” Hudson predicts confidently.

“Are you kidding?”

“He might be right,” Bishop says with clear reluctance. “There aren’t many in the base, for some reason - we aren’t their main concern.”

“What’s going on?” Ripley narrows her eyes, accepting a stun baton from Hicks.

“I don’t know. But we’d best get moving in case they come back.”

She agrees with him, and Drake takes point, creeping forward to the subterranean corridor with assault rifle poised. Deserted fluorescent-lit concrete stretches before him.

“Sir, I had a thought,” Hudson whispers.

“Careful,” Hicks replies, “you might strain something.”

“Yeah, funny - where’s Gorman? Should we go for him?”

They all freeze in shared indecision.

“We don’t leave marines behind,” Hicks says, and someone groans from the rear-guard. “If he’s in a cell then we bust him out, and if he’s elsewhere… we’ll take a chance on finding him. But only one chance. Otherwise we get the hell out of here. He can handle himself.”

“Let’s hope so,” Drake says, “because I’m not risking my ass for that guy.”

\--

Further down, a pair of guards stand outside one of the other cells. Gorman could well be in there.

“Even if he isn’t,” Hudson says softly, “we could replace him with whoever it is. They might know their ass from their elbow.”

Hicks frowns but doesn’t reprimand him.

“Everybody behind,” he orders, and slings forth a stolen flash-bang from one of their unfortunate gaolers.

The blast echoes down the corridor and the guards stagger. Smoke fills the centre section and the marines charge through to take them down. Bishop is already working on the lock by the time the guards hit the ground, untroubled by smoke and noise. Nobody gets shot.

“Who’s in there?” Drake calls as the heavy door swings open.

“Positive ID Lieutenant Gorman,” Bishop replies.

“Great!” Hicks says, not entirely convincingly. “Bring him out. Lieutenant, can you walk?”

“I’m fine, Corporal, I - how did you -?”

“I’ll explain later. Come on. Stay in the middle.”

They pilfer the weapons from these guards too; four rifles and four side-arms in total, a handful of grenades and four stun batons. Ripley gets a pistol, and makes it safe before tucking it into her waistband. That’s about all she knows how to do. She won’t ever use it.

“Arm the synthetic,” Gorman pants as they head for the stairs, “superior reactions….”

Hicks actually pauses for a split second to gawp at him. “Have you ever  _ worked _ with a synth?” 

He hears Bishop mutter ‘artificial person’ behind him.

“No,” Gorman admits. They form up around the bottom of the stairwell and start their ascent.

“Hah. Well, this guy -,” Vasquez cocks a thumb at their cybernetic companion, “ain’t gonna shoot nobody. He can’t. No harm to humans.”

“That reminds me,” Hicks says, “Bishop - try not to throw yourself in front of bullets for the other guy.”

“I can’t promise. But I’ll try.”

“You mean he might defend  _ them _ ?” Gorman hisses in disbelief.

“Well, the alternative is his head explodes. So yeah.”

“It’s not quite like that,” Bishop argues, but doesn’t get to explain before they arrive at the top of the stairs. 

This level seems similarly devoid of people, and to the left lies the corridor they could take to the outside world.

“I can taste the freedom,” Hudson says, hefting his rifle, “and it is  _ fine _ .”

“Well, I hope you brought enough to go around,” Drake responds.

Hicks motions for them to stay put.

“We can go this way,” he says, “or we can try and make it to the vehicle storage and steal some transport. Since there’s barely any resistance and it’ll help us get further away faster.”

“If they all went,” Ripley says from the back of the pack, “won’t they have taken the transport with them?”

“Maybe. Depends on where they went, and how many. Do we take that chance?”

“I dunno,” Vasquez shrugs. “Do we just sit here and wait for  _ them  _ to decide?”

“I want out,” Gorman says. “We steal a vehicle - I’m the superior officer here.”

There’s a heavily pregnant pause before they realise that he’s actually right.


	4. Chapter 4

“They’ve taken most of them,” Drake looks around the garage, “you were right. But the smaller units are left… there’s an ATV there we could use.”

“Take it,” Hicks says (Gorman has been surprisingly unwilling to give orders even after asserting his authority in bringing them here).

They move in. Still nobody defending the base from inside. No alarms. No commotion.

“Nobody home,” Hudson says, for the third or fourth time since they opted to escape this way. “Man, I don’t like it. Where  _ are _ they?”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Gorman observes, “you’d think there’d be comms of some sort, if most units are out and the co-ordination is being done from here….”

“I took out their comms officer,” Bishop says noncommittally, and doesn’t seem to notice the look that Gorman gives him.

“Hey!”

A young man in overalls wanders towards them, and is immediately on the business end of four rifles. He stops and holds out his hands. He appears to be unarmed.

“You’re not meant to be here.” He scrutinises their faces. “I don’t recognise you.”

“Should we take him down?” Hudson wonders aloud.

He turns and walks back across the vast room, and they lower their weapons, mystified.

“He’s not trying to stop us…” Drake says, hanging in the doorway of the ATV.

There’s a good twenty or thirty yards between them when the young man looks back over his shoulder, then turns once again.

“This is irregular.” He faces Gorman, straightens his back. “Sir, this is  _ highly  _ irregular.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hudson tells him.

The man’s head whips round and he lunges for Hudson’s weapon.

In a split second Bishop is on him, slamming him to the ground. The team recoil in the moment it takes to register that the splash of bright blood painting the concrete is white not red.

The other synthetic kicks out and knocks Bishop away far enough to jump up and attack back. Bishop catches him and hits him once and they all see (Ripley with a faint cry of distress) the power behind an artificial hand as components crack.

He goes down and struggles to get back up again. Hicks runs forward and puts a few rounds into his head and he stills, unidentifiable fluids and bits of plastic decorating the area in a two-foot radius.

“A synthetic...” Gorman says, very belatedly.

“Get the transport,” Hicks says, stowing his rifle. “Let’s go.”

\--

Vasquez volunteers to drive - either out of goodwill or to release some pent-up aggression; it’s not entirely clear. Hudson is antsy and refuses to stay still, so Hicks puts him to work establishing comms with the ship. Bishop sits and flexes his hand - something was damaged in the fight with the mechanic. The skin is ripped and the servos grind.

“Not good,” he says, and licks the fluid off his knuckles, to Ripley’s barely concealed disgust. She knows he’s aware of her misgivings, and that’s just fine.

Apone’s voice breaks through and startles them all. “...the hell are you bunch of creampuffs? Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Sergeant - we’re about three clicks north of the base,” Hicks responds. “Where are you?”

“Somewhere nearby. No hostiles so far. Turn east as soon as you can, though, or you’ll run into them.”

“Where are they?”

“You’ll wanna see this, Corporal. I promise you that. Head east - the forest thins out and there’s a plateau about five clicks away. We’ll pick you up there. Don’t make me wait. Out.”

Vasquez swings the ATV round and they all bounce off various hard surfaces.

“Jesus!” Hudson hauls himself back into his seat. “D’ya mind?”

“He said go east, dumbass.”

“Not  _ right this second _ . I don’t know why we let you drive.”

“Because I’m the best. You know it.”

“Right,” Hudson says, and refuses to start a row that could see him walking all the way to their RV point.

\--

The dropship is idling on the plateau, and the engines cycle up barely seconds after they arrive.

“He really doesn’t want to wait, does he?” Drake observes as they pile in. He could swear the landing gear is already lifting off the ground as his foot passes through the doorway.

“So, Sergeant,” Hicks turns to Apone, whose only greeting was a yell of ‘get your asses in here before I shut you in the doors’, “what did you want me to see?”

“Ferro, bring us around,” Apone yells to the pilot, and waves the squad over to the rear of the ship. “They wanna see the hole.”

“The what?” Gorman asks, before Apone orders them to hang onto something.

The ramp lowers and they brace themselves against the wind.

“Down there!” the Sergeant shouts and they lean to look.

“It’s a hole,” Hicks shouts back. “A big one.”

“Just like yourself, Corporal. It just appeared.”

“It just  _ appeared? _ ”

“ _ What _ ?”

Someone has the sense to hit the ramp controls, and peace is restored to the inside of the ship.

“How do you mean, sir?”

“My guess is it’s a sinkhole. Opens up when the ground underneath is unstable. That’s where they all are.”

“They… fell in a hole?”

“Yep. Seismic disturbance reported just after they shot you down. A couple of squads went your way, and a few more went to investigate that. Looks like they lost comms, so more units were deployed. They drove onto what they thought was solid terrain, and the ground swallowed them up.”

“Not  _ all  _ of them, surely?”

“Quite a lot. Maybe they found something worth fighting. I don’t know. What I do know is that enough were missing or otherwise occupied for you to make your escape, thank God. We’ll see what happens when they get their heads outta their asses or their asses outta that hole, whichever happens first ”

“We’re getting reports from the ship, sir,” the co-pilot interrupts, “mayday call from the ground. They know we’re here and they want our help with… well, the hole thing.”

Gorman opens his mouth, but Apone gets there first.

“Oh, so  _ now  _ they want us to come save them? Tell them we’ll think about it. Then tell ‘em I thought about it - and the answer is no. Take us to orbit.”


End file.
